


quelqu'un m'a dit que tu m'aimais

by truethingsproved



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-12
Updated: 2018-01-12
Packaged: 2019-03-04 00:31:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13352718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/truethingsproved/pseuds/truethingsproved
Summary: five times that nymphadora tonks and fleur delacour kissed





	quelqu'un m'a dit que tu m'aimais

When she first meets Fleur Delacour, she falls out of her chair.

It’s an easy thing to do. Fleur has hair the color of moonlight and a smile that knocks the breath out of you, and Tonks is only human. Her hair flashes violet as she stands up, dusting herself off, and Fleur’s smile only widens at that.

“That’s a neat trick.”

Her accent – French, thick, the sort of thing that Tonks could get lost in – is beautiful. Tonks grabs at the fabric of her robes before extending a hand to shake, palms still sweating when Fleur takes her hand, and she’s not sure what she’s done to deserve something like this, but she’s glad for it. Karmic imbalances don’t often work in her favor; then again, perhaps this is the universe’s way of apologizing for making gravity work overtime for her.

“Hi. Sorry. Hi. I’m – Tonks. Dora. Nymphadora. Nymphadora Tonks. Just – Tonks.”

“Nymphadora.” She says it like it’s some sort of delicacy, a pastry with a flaky crust that falls apart the moment it hits your tongue. _Neem-fa-doe-ra._ “That’s lovely.”

Is it? She’s never heard her name called lovely before, except by her mother, but then again, she’s never heard anyone say her name like that before. Tonks’ palms start to sweat again, and she releases Fleur’s hand, wiping her palms against her robes as discreetly as she can as she takes a seat. “Thank you,” she mumbles, and she crosses her ankles, uncrosses them, kicks her heels gently against the legs of the chair, twists her fingers in her robes, anything and everything she can do to keep from focusing all of her attention on the woman in front of her.

Tonks’ questions are fairly straightforward. Does she remember meeting with a Mr. Johansson on the twenty-first of last month? Yes, she does. Does she recall what they discussed? He had questions regarding the payment plan for a loan advertised in the lobby. What is it, exactly, that she does at the bank? Right now, she works part-time, answering questions and making appointments, but she’s interested primarily in forgeries – learning to identify them, how to determine if they’re cursed or not, how to trace which forgeries come from whom. How long has she lived in London? Not too long – just a few months, and she’s staying in a Muggle apartment building for the time being, in East Finchley. 

“If it’s alright to ask – where are you from?” Fleur’s interrupts here, just as Tonks is fishing around for a photograph of the second suspect, and Tonks lets out a small noise of surprise. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to change the subject. I’m not good at placing Irish accents.”

“Donegal. It’s in Ulster.”

“Northern Ireland?”

“No. I mean, yes, technically, it’s at the north _of_ Ireland, but it’s still Ireland.”

Fleur lets out a small, tinkling laugh, and Tonks practically feels her soul leaving her body at the sound. “I can never keep the two straight,” she confesses. “North _of_ Ireland, and _Northern_ Ireland. Is it a city?”

“No; my father owns a farm.”

“Just your father?”

“My mother owns it too but she says Da can take credit for anything with that much cow shit. Sorry; that was crass.”

But Fleur is laughing again, and she presses her fingers lightly to Tonks’ as she does – and really, that’s about it for Tonks. She clears her throat twice, forgets what she was saying, and then, finally, wordlessly, slides the photograph over to Fleur.

“That’s Mr. Johansson’s wife. I believe she said her name was Elaine.”

Fleur picks up the photograph to get a better look and Tonks’ fingers are suddenly cold. She clears her throat again, certain she sounds as if she’s got a cold or some other disgusting phlegm situation happening, but Fleur, thankfully, doesn’t seem to notice. Tonks takes the opportunity to look at her, _really_ look at her – the cornsilk of her hair, the bright, almost silvery blue of her eyes, the sweet curve of her jaw, the absolute _poetry_ in the slope of her nose. Once Fleur is finished with the photograph she hands it back, nodding and adding something about Elaine Johansson, how she hadn’t been there for very long, had merely poked her head in to the meeting before excusing herself to the loo. She catches sight of Tonks’ gaze and she smiles, looking _flattered,_ somehow, and Tonks stands abruptly, pushing her chair back with such force that it topples behind her and she trips over the hem of her robe.

“Thank you for your time,” she mutters, shoving her papers back into her bag and picking up the chair, her cheeks flaming, her hair rippling violet again. “So sorry, didn’t mean to – “

“It’s nothing,” Fleur insists, and her smile grows warmer. “It was lovely to meet you, Nymphadora.” _Neem-fa-doe-ra._ Like a pastry; like spun sugar, sitting and melting on the tip of her tongue. “If there is anything else I can do to help, please, let me know?”

Tonks nods, no less flustered by Fleur’s kindness and attention than by her own clumsiness, and Fleur moves around the desk to stand in front of her, reaches forward to take her hand and shake it again. When she does, her fingers brush along the soft underside of Tonks’ wrist, and she presses a kiss to Tonks’ cheek. Tonks’ knees turn to jelly at that.

“Right, uh. Bye.” She steps back, offers an awkward wave, and half-dashes out of the bank, her cheek burning even in the cutting chill of the winter wind. Fleur Delacour smells of lavender and honey, moves like water and laughs like bells, and Nymphadora Tonks – clumsy and blunt, is a disaster.

They catch Johansson before Tonks has any reason to interview Fleur Delacour again and while the others are congratulating one another on a job well done, Tonks sits at her desk, head tipped back and eyes fixed on the water-stained tiles in the ceiling, and she presses her fingers to her cheek and breathes in the scent of honey floating up from her tea.

**Author's Note:**

> many thanks to marta for proofreading!


End file.
